"Yes, mamma, but couldn't somebody else do it?" She stopped a moment and then said,—
"Josey, there was a time, thousands of years ago, when man had sinned, and there was no hope nor joy for him in the world; there was only the certainty that his soul must be miserable forever. Then our blessed Saviour said, 'I pity these poor people and shall try to save them.' He left his glorious throne, by the side of his Father, and came here to give himself to death.
"The love and pity of God the Father was so great, that he sent his beloved Son, that whosoever believeth on him shall have everlasting life.
"The poor Hindoos know nothing of the true God. They have not the precious Bible, as we have, to tell them that they need not throw their babies to the crocodiles,—they need not tear and wound their own flesh, nor throw themselves under the wheels of the cruel Juggernaut. Your aunt Fanny and uncle James are going to tell them, they need do nothing of all this. They desire to say to those poor, ignorant men and women and children, that Christ's love for them is so great that if they will but come and accept of his salvation, it shall be freely theirs. She wants to tell the poor, weary pilgrims, who have been walking hundreds of miles with stones in their shoes, that the blessed Jesus will accept them without money, without price, without any of these painful journeys,—that they have only to lay their load of sin upon him, and he will carry it for them."
Josey's tears ceased to flow, and he listened with almost breathless interest.
"Do you want to keep Aunt Fanny from telling them this?" mamma asked. "Do you want them to go on worshipping those senseless idols, which can neither see, nor hear, nor understand?"
With a great sob Josey answered,
"No, mamma, I love her dearly, dearly; but I'll let Jesus have her. He'll know then how I love him."
With a gush of tears, she folded him to her heart. When they were more calm, she urged him to return to the parlor.
"Pretty soon I will," he said softly, "And oh, mamma, if you'll please let me sit up an hour later every night till she—I mean, till we're all alone. Now I'm going to write her a letter."